Congelatio
by theFaun
Summary: Jack is content for the first time in centuries. He has everything he could have asked for-a family, a purpose; and his first believer. Jack can't mess this up. Pitch proves otherwise. M for descriptions of violence/gore, possible canonical character death. Set after the movie.
1. Chapter 1

_I was walking far from home_  
_Where the names were not burned along the wall_  
_Saw a building high as heaven_  
_But the door was so small, door was so small_

* * *

It had been 318 years.

Jack was happy; happier than he had known was possible. He had a family, friends, others that actually _cared_ about him. He had a couple of believers already, too, and though he tried not to pick favorites among the kids he acquainted himself with, the two Bennett children held a special place in the winter spirit's heart for obvious reasons.

There were times when things got too overwhelming—long visits to the Workshop for busy and hectic meetings made him the slightest bit uncomfortable because of all the activity, and the casual way his shoulders were gently gripped and brushed or his hair ruffled in passing—but at the same time he absorbed these friendly touches and tried to remember the feeling of warm hands when the all-too familiar feeling of loneliness crept its way back into his heart.

When the heat of the room North had prepared for him in the workshop (he had politely refused multiple times, but there was no stopping the large Russian when he wanted to provide hospitality) jumbled his thoughts and weighed down his mind, which did its job best in the cold, Jack often excused himself and rushed out on the wind as recklessly as a flurry of snow and let the bitter breeze do what it will. The icy wind did seem to know him best—sometimes he ended up in a remote a place as Antarctica or perhaps a small town in Siberia—but tonight, after laughter and stories of danger and battles won had been shared by the Guardians at the Pole and fun had been had by all, the wind took Jack home, to the small town on the Eastern side of the United States where he had been born: Burgess.

It was here that the trouble started. After skimming the sidewalks with non-lethal patches of black ice and sending chilly breezes into windows and through doors left ajar, Jack felt a deep sense of fulfillment and not unwelcome warmth. His eyelids grew heavy and eventually he had sought out a place to rest in the forest near his pond, where he ended up in a tree graced by frost and gnarled by the harsher, less forgiving effects of winter.

The winter spirit was dozing off, cradled by the branches of the snowy tree with his back and head resting against the trunk, eyelids half-shut and closing with contentedness and breath coming out in slow puffs-

And then, suddenly, he wasn't.

For a split second the winter spirit was aware of a faint slithering noise below him, like sand paper was winding its way up the trunk of the tree—and then something had him by the ankle and wrist on the same side and it wrenched the boy out of the tree and it was black sand, swirling and disappearing into the dark forest around him—

Black sand—Pitch. It had to be. The Guardians had banished him back to his hole in the ground a mere couple of years ago-so how was he here? This stream of thought was abruptly cut short as Jack slammed into the forest floor with a thud. He landed on his back, winded and gasping for air, chest thumping and ribs screaming. The boy scrambled halfway to his feet before a weight pressed into the small of his back, shoving him harshly down from behind. Jack met the ground again with a yelp, face mashed into the thin coating of snow and the layer of frozen dirt below. That weight was firm on his back now, pressing and steady between his protruding shoulder blades. It was digging and impossibly strong and he _knew _who it was_._ Jack's ribs ached as he positioned himself so one cheek was resting on the solid, frozen ground. Through bared teeth and a clenched jaw the boy managed to growl. "Pitch!"

The weight on his back shifted.

"Jack." came the simple reply from above. The too-familiar voice wasn't the usual velvety, practiced drawl that sent shivers through the Nightmare King's victims; it was tinged with the slightest whisper of sadness, of regret. _Sympathy,_ thought Jack. _Maybe._

"Fancy seeing you here…"Pitch continued, and Jack's heart fell as he realized his words were guarded by malice once again.

"You _know_ this is my place, Pitch," the boy managed to hiss. The harsh weight increased, grinding into the ridges of the back of Jack's ribcage and it _hurt _and why was he doing this? The winter spirit wheezed into the snow, short, icy puffs of breath clouding around his mouth and nose and disappearing as he clutched at the crunchy, half- buried leaves around him, just hidden under the evening's flurries. "What did you come here for? To hurt _me_? Haven't you had _enough _yet?" Jack spat his questions, craning his neck to glance backward at Pitch, not expecting answers and realizing too late that he was going to get ones he didn't like.

Pitch watched Jack as he all but shook with emotion beneath his boot. How endearing_. _Pitch thought surely he wasn't so _stupid _to be out here alone, dozing and vulnerable and just begging to be snatched up—but he _had_ been, to the Nightmare King's glee, and he had found the insufferable brat resting in his tree just outside of the town he lingered about incessantly; Burgess. He had found him, like a little bird perched up in the limbs, and he had ripped him down from there as a hungry snake would a fledgling and now he _had _him. Now the child was asking, always asking and so the Nightmare King leaned down, bending his knee and watching his prey squirm through the amber eyes of a predator and everything was just _perfect. _"If it is your suffering we are talking about, Jack_," _he growled down into the winter spirit's ear, taking in the grimace—"then it will be _long_ before I will have _ever_ had enough."

The winter spirit stiffened under the weight of the boogeyman, the desperation of the situation sinking in as he realized just how perfectly vulnerable he was. Jack could be cocky and difficult, but the fact was Pitch was going to hurt him any way that he could, and he _knew_ this. And it scared him. A primal fear of death and dying and pain that even spirits are equipped with shot through the deepest corners of his mind and he was going to die here on the ground, cold just like he was and there was nothing he could do about it—and then Pitch was shifting his weight again, and Jack could hear the fabric of his robes as he knelt next to him, a mass of shadows keeping the boy pinned to the ground even as the digging weight of Pitch's heel was removed. Then came a whisper, searing hot breath meeting cold, pale skin and causing Jack to shiver as condensation formed on his cheek.

"Now, Jack," the slick, velvety voice wormed its way into his head as the Nightmare King _tsk'd _at him as a grown-up would to a misbehaving child. "Your fear is _far_ too pungent for your own good." Was that a warning? Jack could hear the sneer in the Boogeyman's voice and decided then and there that whatever happened to him, he would _not _give Pitch the satisfaction he craved. Not of hearing him whimper on the ground, pinned under an unfathomable force of shadows while his worst fears were being read as if his mind were an open book—not of hearing him beg or plead for mercy, when the time came. No. As long as he kept Pitch occupied and away from Jamie and the rest of his friends—that would be enough to comfort him through whatever would happen.

Jack didn't respond. Instead, he bit his lip and scanned the ground in front of him desperately for the one thing that would be his salvation—his staff. He realized that he hadn't kept hold of it during his fall; shadows had snatched it from his loose grip in the moment that they had grabbed him. With a sickening pit forming in his stomach, Jack realized Pitch must have it. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping for an opportunity that, in the back of his mind, Jack knew probably wouldn't present itself. The boy was pulled from his thoughts and snapped back into the moment, however, when Pitch's long, bony fingers curled into his snow white hair almost gently before his grip tightened suddenly. The Nightmare King wrenched the winter spirit's head up and back, drawing a choked gasp from Jack at the painful twist of his spine and neck as his eyes shot open and he clawed, half-blinded by pain, at the dirt and snow level with him. Pitch leant down to growl into the boy's ear once again, taking cruel pleasure at the pained downward pull on the boy's mouth and how _desperately_ he was trying to hide it under anger and bared teeth.

"It's rude to daydream while you're being spoken to, Frost," came the searing hiss. "You're afraid," he paused for effect, "of your friends getting hurt. Of leaving you. Of getting _bored_. I can't blame you," Pitch continued, his tone inflecting and thoughtful. "That is a reasonable concern. After all, 300 years of neglect is hard to explain." Jack's eyes slammed shut once again as he attempted and to stop Pitch's words as they dripped like venom into an open wound. He tried to shut his mouth but the angle wouldn't allow it, and something like a choked sob clawed its way out of the boy's throat before he could swallow it. After a moment of shakiness, Jack controlled his voice enough to make a demand.

"Let me _go." _Pitch didn't fight the razor-blade smile that crept across his features.

"…Or what? Your Guardian friends will get me? Unfortunately for you, that doesn't look like it is going to happen—and I have nothing to lose. Poor child. All alone…" The Nightmare King let a chuckle escape his thin lips before untangling his grey fingers from the boy's hair, letting Jack's head drop unceremoniously on the frozen ground where his pale cheek hit the snow with a soft thud. Bluish eyelids clenched downwards before sliding open again to reveal the same cerulean eyes, defiant as ever but rimmed with tears and then there was that innocent, childlike look there as well…a question nestled among blue irises that seemed to catch Pitch's eye. It was haunting, and searching, and it reminded Pitch of a child and it always caught him off guard. The look in the boy's eyes said _Why? Why are you doing this?_ And the innocence of the question searched and all but unraveled the Nightmare King and it almost, _almost _made him wonder the same thing.

But not tonight. Tonight, Jack was going to pay for everything, for all the Guardians' little acts of defiance against him as well as his own. Pitch had, admittedly, already spent too much time gloating over the boy—he had a schedule to mind, and a guest he didn't want to keep waiting for too long. Everything was in its place, and as it should be.

When Pitch was finally satisfied with the lack of outbursts from the winter spirit, he decided it was time to move. The sun had finally fallen below the horizon, bathing the forest in a pleasant impossible-to-see dimness that put a strain on the eyes—any eyes but the Nightmare King's, that is. It had started to snow minutes earlier, thanks to Jack's struggle, and thick flurries were starting to accumulate as the temperature dropped.

Miles away, little Jamie Bennett was still outside, hopelessly lost, and probably just now coming to the realization that no one was coming to save him-_especially_ not his dear Jack Frost.

* * *

**A/N: **

**Launching the drama bomb. This is NOT going to be one of the hundreds of "Jack gets kidnapped by eeevvulll boogeyman and guardians must saaave him" fics, I promise. The song lyrics are from "Walking Far from Home" by Iron and Wine. If you listen to the whole thing, it is very bittersweet and it reminds me so much of Jack.  
Also, if you are wondering, "Congelatio" is the medical term for the condition of frost bite. Did you know, the early stages of frost bite are actually called frost nip? Cute, right? Bet you don't think it is cute when your foot turns grey.**

**Anyway, what do you think? Is this a keeper? Reviews are much appreciated. Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

_I saw sickness, blooming fruit trees  
I saw blood and a bit of it was mine  
I saw children in a river  
But their lips were still dry, lips were still dry_

* * *

Death wasn't Pitch's to deal, and he was well aware of this; but that didn't mean he couldn't help it on its way a little. His Nightmares had led Jamie into the forest, that was all; led him far, far away from his house and his friends and any other humans that would aid him. Really, it was the fault of the child that his curiosity had gotten the best of him. Pitch smiled a cruel smile. After Jack finally realized that he had absolutely _no one,_ after he himself had inadvertently extinguished the last light, he would have no choice but to come crawling back to the Nightmare King.

Pitch thought of the boy begging for forgiveness through his tears, for mercy, pleading and saying desperately over and over that _he_ had been wrong, that _Pitch_ was right, that he was the only one that knew him. _His only true believer_. The thought made warmth creep up Pitch's spine and into his head where it stretched his smile until it all but split his face in a row of jagged off-white teeth. He was doing what was best.

After a few moments more, Pitch called his shadows off of the winter spirit who tried for a desperate second to worm out of the Nightmare King's reach. _Precious_. Pitch watched him for a moment, slightly amused, before sighing and reaching down to grasp the fabric of the back of the boy's hood. Ignoring Jack's cry of protest, Pitch hoisted him upright and pulled him to his feet where the boy teetered on his long legs, unbalanced. The moment he regained his composure, Jack whirled to face the Nightmare King with a watery glare that was quickly replaced by a look of pure, delicious panic and shock.

Jack felt the shadows before he saw them; as soon as he had turned back to those yellow eyes he _knew_ something was wrong. Well, more than what was _already _wrong with the situation. The sandy tendrils had pooled around the boy's bare feet and crept up, up his legs, winding around muscle and the bones of his shins like boa constrictors and gripping just as hard, the pressure increasing the more Jack struggled and tried to kick frantically out of their grasp.

"Pitch!" came the panicked cry. "Let me _go _before you regret it!" The Nightmare King let the empty threat hang in the crisp air as darkness clawed at and clung to more of Jack's body. Inky shadows wound their way across frosted fabric and smothered the brightness of pale ankles and wrists in their curling embrace, like an eclipse over a bright and beautiful sun. _It is perfect,_ Pitch thought.

Jack kept yelling, kept screaming at Pitch as fear spread through him to cover every inch the nightmare sand hadn't. The large, searing grains burned like cattle prods on every patch of exposed skin, and before Jack could think sensibly, his wrists were wrapped up in front of him and the sand was _burning _into his cold flesh and every particle was like a white-hot coal.

The boy was in shock at the pain and the low _hissss _that accompanied it and surrounded him and he stared down in horror at his shaking hands and trembling fingertips and everything _hurt—_and then Pitch was upon him, murmuring into his ear and carding long fingers again through his hair but this time softly, gently as though the Nightmare King were comforting a small kid and not torturing the winter spirit with searing _heat_—

"You just don't understand, do you, child?" Jack weakly tried to wriggle his shoulders out from Pitch's grip, but to no avail. He opened his mouth to say something but no sound would come out—then, all of a sudden the surrounding forest collapsed and crashed mightily in around the two and before he knew it darkness was smothering Jack and the shadows were closing in, heavy and hot and suffocating, wrapping both spirits up and swallowing them whole. Jack was vaguely aware of the rattling vibration of his voice in his throat and he heard a choked cry far, far in the distance and the scenery was passing and breaking, shattering and then rebuilding itself on a dark blur of a foundation that was impossible to discern from the shadows. Everything was spinning and Jack felt sure he was going to retch right there amid all the motion and even the comfort of wrapping his aching arms around his midsection and doubling over was denied to him—

And then it was over. Everything was still, eerily still, and it seemed like there was no other presence but his own and for one precious second, Jack thought he was alone.

That hope fluttered for a moment before dying pitifully in his chest as a grey hand clamped onto the winter spirit's shoulder possessive with a vice-like grip. Jack startled at the touch, breathing hard and fast, feeling dizzy and sending ghostly puffs of air billowing out into the cold night. He wanted so badly to run, to take to the skies and let the wind rush him away to wherever it desired but Jack could hardly _move _in the bindings of the shadows let alone fly and, with his limbs intertwined in corrupted dream sand, retrieving his staff from Pitch's grip would be impossible.

This was _bad._ Jack knew Pitch's efforts weren't for naught—there was always some dark purpose or reason behind every one of his seemingly small actions; The Nightmare King's moves were carefully calculated, precise and designed to hurt (one particular instance in the Arctic came to mind).

The winter spirit knew this, and with every racing thought that carried fear to his mind his heart sank with the anxiety that something terrible was going to transpire and Pitch wouldn't let him go until it did.

Jack's mobility may have been limited but his senses remained very much intact, and the shadows gripping the boy allowed him to turn his head and crane his neck just barely in an attempt to identify his surroundings. The hot breath on the back of his neck made his pulse quicken as he took in the scene.

Pitch had transported them to another part of the vastly wooded area surrounding Burgess; while this stretch of the woods wasn't particularly familiar to Jack, the spirit, who had wandered every inch of the area around Burgess over the years, recognized the tall snow-covered birches as part of his home nonetheless. He could tell from a moment's glance around that the two of them weren't far from the spot in the same forest where Pitch had found Jack minutes earlier—the crisp air tasted the same and the flurries of snow were still gaining momentum—though more was starting to fall as Jack's anxiety rose.

Maybe it was an intuition that all spirits were born equipped with—of maybe it was Jack's 318 (give or take some) years of experience—but the winter spirit couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly, terribly off.

They weren't the only ones in the forest.

Behind the trapped boy, Pitch chuckled darkly as he enjoyed the rushing fear and thoughts of potential scenarios racing through Jack's mind. The Nightmare King thought idly to himself; _When would he notice? When would he notice? _He imagined that when Jack, the unobservant thing, finally _did _notice what was happening, he would be able to ride the wave of absolute crushing panic as far as the eye could see and disappear with it into oblivion.

It was then that Jack opened his mouth to speak, to ask what was going on and why they were there and what was Pitch doing? But it was then that he noticed.

After Jack's eyes had adjusted to the dim evening light and was able to see through the mild snowfall, he caught sight of a small, huddled form not 20 yards away. The dark thing was shaking slightly, its shoulders hitching up and down and its head tucked between its knees. The winter spirit squinted, willing the snow to let up so he could just catch a glimpse of the face—

It was a child. The poor thing was outside in the cold and snow and it was December and what was he doing, slumped against a tree shivering? If the kid didn't get inside and get warm soon—

The child looked up, slowly, cautiously, as if hearing Jack's thoughts. It was then that the winter spirit could make out the face, half-covered by a green winter hat.

It was Jamie.

Jack's eyes went wide. _This could not be happening. _Not even Pitch would stoop this low—would he? He had to get the kid out of here, no matter _what _it took—Jack would not stand by and watch this unfold.

"JAMIE—" the boy was silenced by a strong grey hand that clamped over his mouth, sealing his voice inside his head effectively and muffling further questions.

"We wouldn't want to ruin the moment, Jack. Children are to be seen and not heard. Did your parents never teach you?" Pitch was met with an angry sob that was stifled quiet effectively.

The Nightmare King in this position, despite the boy's struggling, marveled in the feel how cold Jack actually was. He'd never been this close to the winter spirit before, not in tangible form at least. Frost truly was of winter, deathly pale skin all but glowing in the dim light and icy blue eyes as bitter as the season itself shining with emotion—fear, anger, panic. But not true panic, not yet. It was beautiful to get a taste of these emotions on one as pure as snow.

Pitch thought the whole thing was going marvelously as he fed on the waves of Jack's fear as hungrily as if he were dying of starvation and presented with a banquet.

* * *

_What was Jamie doing here? _Thought Jack anxiously. It was cold; _cold _cold, due to Jack's recent emotional state. He would freeze if he didn't get inside—

Shit. The realization of Pitch's plan hit the winter spirit as hard as a freight train.

_This can't be happening. _

Moments after the realization that Pitch intended to let Jamie _freeze _in front of him, Jack started hyperventilating, though the hand on his mouth wouldn't let up and Pitch could feel on his skin the rapid succession of exhaled breaths. They came one on one on one through the boy's nose as his heart pounded and beat as fast as a snared rabbit's.

Jack had forgotten how to breathe, or so it felt, and with each intake of oxygen he thought he was going to be sick. His mind was overflowing cacophony of loud, raging thoughts and though it was impossible to concentrate on one at a time while growing increasingly dizzy, there was one string of thought in his mind that screamed over the rest until it felt like Jack's eardrums would burst, starting off somewhat sane and descending into rushing madness.

_Jamie, Jamie, oh God, please no this can't be happening this can't be happening please no Pitch no Pitch this can't happen! _Pitch moaned drunkenly, the never-ending stream of fear sending racking waves of warmth through his core. How he wished he could see the boy's eyes, wide and watery with absolute terror because surely he was starting to figure out what would happen here tonight. Jack could scream into the Nightmare King's hand all he wanted—Jamie couldn't hear or see them, not like this, enclosed in shadows. Not even belief, it seems, is enough to breach the darkness.

Jack snapped, tried desperately to elbow the Nightmare King poised behind him, catch him off-guard. _Anything. _He _had _to get Jamie back inside—back to his parents—anywhere but the cold. He was _freezing!_

The cold.

That was Jack. The boy's heart fell out of his chest after a few unsuccessful tries at catching Pitch with his elbows, and when the Nightmare King let out a snarling laugh and ripped Jack's wrists from the bindings in front of him, clenching them both behind the Winter Spirit in one hand with a bruising grip, Jack half-resigned.

He deserved this.

Jamie did not.

* * *

**A/N: We'll see what happens later, I guess! Enjoy. Reviews are much appreciated!**


	3. Chapter 3

_I was walking far from home_  
_ And I found your face mingled in the crowd_  
_ Saw a boatful of believers sail off_  
_ Talking too loud, talking too loud_

* * *

Jack had seen this all before; he had seen it in the sparrow that died in his palm shortly after he rose from the lake. He remembered feeling distraught, unable to save it, only able to lower its temperature further.

Later, he saw _it_ in the children of Burgess the year after he had lingered there-the townspeople had suffered an unreasonably cold and merciless winter during the year that Jack had stayed close to his old home, and the winter spirit hadn't noticed until he saw the youngest children held by their mothers, shivering and breathing fast as their heart rates leapt sporadically, their little fingers and feet turned dark grey and cracked and bled, their lips turned blue...Jack quickly learned not to stay in one place for too long until he had complete control over his element. Tt had taken centuries for the boy to forgive himself. In the end, he had to chalk it up to lack of experience and control.

Jack wasn't stupid. He knew winter could kill, and kill it did, though too often and too young for the spirit's taste.

When growing distressed and hysterical in his first few years over birds and little animals proved to do little more than put cracks in his already precarious emotional state, Jack stopped worrying and learned to let it go.

It was natural. Winter would take; Jack would give. Or try.

* * *

But now, watching Jamie from Pitch's arms Jack knew that this was different. This was _not _natural. This absolutely _was not happening. _Jamie wasn't in serious trouble yet-he was still shivering-his body was still able to try to warm him up. Jack knew the stages of hypothermia by heart, simply from watching the horrifying process happen over and over and over the years. He had always stood rooted to the spot, tears threatening to fall and heart being wrenched from his chest, unable to help. Jack had offered comfort to dying animals by creating blankets of snow for them, to at least speed up the process and try to make their suffering bearable while it lasted. Jack had often heard that, in the final stages of hypothermia, you'd begin to feel warm and comfortable and giddy, falling into a child-like state of insensibility. He didn't know if this was true; all he did was wrap those children that suffered in his cloak or the freshest snow and rocked them until they fell asleep. He thought he had fixed them, made them better and warm and well-but when they didn't wake, Jack spent hours afterwards screaming at the moon until his voice went hoarse—and then he wept.

He'd be damned if he would cover Jamie's freezing body with snow by the end of the night.

He could do this—he _would _do this. His first believer was not going to die, not today. He needed a plan; but first he needed to _breathe._

Jack slowly reined in his hysteria, frantic, clipped breaths slowing until they were deep and shaky against Pitch's hand. He tried to think of pleasant images of fun in the snow and Sandy's dream sand as it curled itself around small sleeping forms, comforting and warm and safe. He thought of wind and snow and shards of blue ice as they blasted from his veins through the crook of his staff and imagined being surrounded by it, enveloping everything until there was nothing but cold, crisp cold white covering the landscape and smothering all the evils it held.

Pitch's too-smooth voice broke the scene, sending disruptive ripples reverberating through the peaceful images in Jack's mind and shattering them violently with each syllable.

"Calming down, are we? I don't want you too insensible during this…_delicate_ process." Jack closed his eyes, clenched his jaw. He wasn't going to listen. Pitch was a raving lunatic at the very least.

The boy took a deep breath through his nose, wriggling his left wrist out of Pitch's vice-like grasp. Pitch didn't protest as Jack slowly freed his hand, and didn't say a word when he brought it slowly to his face, placing his slightly quivering pale hand on the grey one firmly held over his mouth. He could feel Pitch suppress a jump at the sudden cool contact—the hand gripping his bruised wrist twitched ever so slightly. Tightened. Loosened.

Jack knew what he had to do. He dammed up the tears threatening to spill out-he had to be brave. For Jamie.

"I'm calm." He tried to force the words through Pitch's fingers by sheer force of will. They came out as pathetic mumbles against the one holding his voice.

However, the results turned out relatively better than what Jack had expected. The hand immediately left his mouth and flew to the back of the winter spirit's head, where long fingers curled and knotted into his hair once again, tugging back and tipping up his chin. So Pitch _did _want to hear him, whether for his cries or his words—Jack knew which—but he would be sorely disappointed.

A sharp tug to his hair came with a growl in his ear this time; Pitch's breath crept across his skin like something squirming and slimy and alive. Jack ground his teeth to keep from crying out and being sick, he didn't know which, as he felt some of his roots come loose. Deep, shaky breaths followed.

"I said I'm calm."

With his head tipped this far up, Jack could only catch glimpses of Jamie's huddled form against the tree. He couldn't see if he was still shivering or not; it was only a matter of time.

Pitch's demented little chuckle after this thought sent needle-sharp shivers up his spine.

**A/N: This one is a little short, sorry! Felt like I needed to just put another chapter up before my reviewers exploded (thanks for motivating me, guys! Really wasn't planning on continuing this). Took a big long break from fanfic writing...end of sophomore year hectic madness tends to do that. Hope you enjoy this anyway!. :)**


	4. Chapter 4

_Saw a white dog chase it's tail _  
_ And a pair of hearts carved into a stone _  
_ I saw kindness and an angel _  
_ Crying "take me back home, take me back home"_

* * *

"Excellent."

Jack could hardly suppress his sigh of relief.

The hand in his hair tightened. "Now, Jack. I'm going to be extremely generous and give you a choice."

The breath caught in his throat but he didn't say a word.

"Either you and I stay here and enjoy our front-row seats to the slow death of your little first believer,"

Jack closed his eyes, fighting not to indulge the hot tears that pooled under his lids.

"and I let you go free afterwards…

"Or I take you back with me, without protest mind you, to do what I wish in order to harvest your fear…

"And little Jamie Bennett goes free."

Jack knew what his answer was going to be before both choices had the chance to slink out of Pitch's mouth.

The boy swallowed thickly, opening his mouth before despair had a chance to swallow him whole.

"How do I know he'll be safe?" It came out as a meek whisper.

Pitch released his grip on the shock of white hair, allowing Jack to look directly at Jamie once again with wide eyes as he shivered and huddled closer to the tree he sat against. A grey hand gave Jack's head a condescending pat.

"You have my word. My Nightmares will escort him back to his doorstep."

"And what of the Guardia-" he was cut off by the silky voice.

"Dear boy, have you made your choice? Jamie here doesn't have all night." He chuckled darkly at his own joke.

Jack furrowed his brow. He had already made up his mind. It was all going to be okay—Jamie was going to be _alright. _Jack could handle any of Pitch's tricks. With a final, deep breath of resolve, Jack spoke. "Take me with you, or whatever, just…just let him _go._"

"Hmm?" Pitch hummed giddily.

"_Please_." A tear was falling now, just one. It rolled slowly, tauntingly, over Jack's freckled cheek and down his jaw before dropping, a single frozen pearl, down into oblivion.

"Good boy."

Jack sniffled before he could stop himself, staring down pathetically at his bare feet as one of Pitch's Nightmares trotted over to the small, shivering boy before hoisting him up by his vest collar and carrying him off. Jamie didn't even protest, incoherent as his eyes drooped.

"There, there, child..." Pitch cooed, carding long fingers through Jack's hair in a mockery of affection.

"If you behave I think you'll find your stay underground to be quite pleasant. If not, well. It won't be pleasant. But that's up to you." Jack could hear the smugness that accompanied victory in the older spirit's voice.

It made him want to vomit, but he could rest easy now with the knowledge that Jamie was okay. That Jack had saved him. That he had done his duty as a Guardian. He looked up through bleary eyes and let a thin, waning smile of relief grace his features as he took a steadying breath.

His stomach dropped before Jack could cry out as the ground collapsed beneath his feet without warning, a twisting vortex of shadows engulfing the two spirits in the span of a split second.

* * *

They came to a lurching halt in the main chamber of Pitch's lair, Jack on his hands and knees and gasping to catch his breath beside the elder spirit on the cold, damp stone floor. The slow _drip, drip_ of water could be heard in the distance, a product of rainfall and melted snow that leaked through the earthen roof of the enormous, onyx-carved cavern.

Jack stood quickly and brushed himself off, wiping frozen tear tracks from his cheeks, preserving what little dignity he had left even in the clutches of the Nightmare King. In front of him the shadows of the main chamber warped and distorted, coiling around their master's feet and furling and unfurling like dark smoke across the stone floor. They writhed and brushed against Jack's ankles, whispering as they investigated the stranger. They recognized the taste of his fear from long ago. Jack stumbled back a step, the unpleasant coil of shadows around his ankles sending spikes of unease shooting through his thin frame.

Pitch watched him quietly, sneering. He can't say he blamed the shadows for wanting another taste of the pale boy that was finally in his grasp. If Jack wouldn't join him, if Jack _still_ wouldn't see reason, then the Nightmare King would do all that was in his power to make him miserable. This was his chance to make Jack pay for his mistakes. To make the Guardians pay for their mistakes.

And they wouldn't be getting their young new member back any time soon.

As Jack stumbled backwards Pitch gave him a strong shove between the shoulder blades, sending the boy teetering forward and forcing him to walk ahead of the Boogeyman through the dark chambers. Jack whipped around and shot him an icy glare before turning to face the darkness ahead.

"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered under his breath as he padded forward, Pitch's footsteps close behind. The shadows hissed at his insolence and the boy responded by wrinkling his nose, staring down any coil of intangible darkness that unfurled in his path until it receded enough for him to continue. If he only had his staff, it would be much easier to see down here…scratch that, if he had his staff he wouldn't _be_ down here. Jack huffed out a cold breath, quelling the anxiety that boiled inside of him._ What was going to happen to him down here, away from the world with no one to hear him scream but Pitch? What if Pitch had lied, what if he hadn't returned Jamie home after all—_Jack ground his teeth. It was going to be fine, he had done the right thing, and he could handle anything Pitch could dish out. He couldn't let the Nightmare King's creepy cave scare him now.

Ever rustle of movement ahead made Jack jump despite himself, the fingers of his left hand twitching instinctively around the staff that wasn't there. This was ridiculous. After a few more tentative steps Jack sighed and turned around to ask what the hell Pitch was playing at—

His eyes immediately locked on his beloved weapon.

Pitch held his staff loosely, cockily, in the long grey fingers of his right hand. He smiled down at Jack as he saw the boy's eyes widen with fear.

"This is being confiscate-" Pitch started coolly, missing the split second where Jack's fear morphed to determined rage as the boy lunged for his staff, managing to lock both bony hands around the ancient wood in an attempt to wrench it from Pitch's grasp. Pitch snarled viciously but the boy was quick as lightning and his weapon dislodged easily from the Boogeyman's loose grip, eager to be held by its rightful master as he took to the stale air in an adrenaline-fueled escape attempt, calling to the wind as he dodged rocky spires and rusted, hanging bird cages.

The wind tried but it could not answer him and so Jack flew upwards with a burst of speed, up to where he thought the hole was under the old bed frame—shadows were close on his heels, buzzing with all the energy of Pitch's fury as Jack clawed at the earthen roof of the chamber with frantic fingers, cursing to himself with shaky breath as he looked down to see a roiling mass of Nightmares charging straight for him just in time. Distracted, Jack shot a wild, un-aimed blast of cerulean ice in their general direction, succeeding in freezing a couple of the Nightmares on the outskirts of the herd solid but missing the mass as they pummeled towards him, their shrill whinnies reverberating off the jagged walls of the chamber and coming from every direction. Jack, eyes darting, finally made out a shaft of light coming from the ceiling not far away—he sped off towards it, hand outstretched, staff blindly blasting streams of ice behind him—the boy didn't make it far. Not far at all, as everything turned upside-down and inside-out, warping and contorting until he was flying not towards the ceiling but straight for a stone wall with nowhere else to go. Jack realized it moments before he collided, pulling up in time to avoid a death blow to the head but instead hearing the sickening staccato _cracks_ of his ribs and shattering left knee before his face collided with the stone. Then he knew only black.

* * *

**A/N: Jack, dearest. Flying into walls is not the best idea for an escape plan. Pitch just wants to cuddle, jeez. Now you're gonna have to deal with an angry drama king. Don't forget to leave a review! Thanks for reading!**


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